Prize of the Warlord: A Dark Rulers Romance (Standalone) by Rebecca F. Kenney

Author:Rebecca F. Kenney [Kenney, Rebecca F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-02-28T16:00:00+00:00

43

A pulse of utter euphoria flares through my soul. My lips feel swollen and hot, and he hasn’t even touched them. His claim resonates in my mind: You belong to me.

“But—what about your people, and your plan?” I say. “The ransom—”

His mouth descends on mine, a brutal possession. His lips are rough, hot, and all-consuming, they scorch and sear me, summon and seduce me. The kiss is a demand and a plea all at once. I jerk against the chains, desperate to touch him, but he only voices a broken hum of pleasure and deepens the kiss. Eyes shut, blind to the world, I kiss him back with everything I have.

My tongue quests at his lips, and when he parts his mouth I slide delicately inside him, flicking across his tongue, dancing with him.

The kiss breaks so we can snatch breath, and then he’s back, holding my head between his great hands, slanting his lips to mine, giving me full access to the hot sweetness of his mouth. We sink into a blur of incandescent desire, a hazy glow of hectic delight.

But I’m truly exhausted, hungry, and thirsty, and the haze begins to darken as I grow fainter. My body slumps against the post, weak and wanting.

“Mouse?” The Warlord examines my face anxiously. His mouth is flushed from my kisses.

“May I have some water?” I smile weakly at him.

“Gods, I’m an asshole,” he exclaims. The next second he’s unfastening the manacles, releasing me, scooping me up as I slide to the floor.

He carries me into the great room and lays me on a bench with a curved back. It’s cushioned with thin pillows and furs.

Moments later he returns with a wooden cup of water and a piece of flat, coarse bread smeared with preserves. While I eat and drink, he stalks the room, a storm of passion and indecision.

“I told the other warlords I would wait,” he says. “One week of waiting, and then, if we receive no message from your people, I will kill you or marry you. So if you’d rather die than marry me, I can arrange that.”

“What would you expect from me, as your wife?” I ask.

He swears and begins unraveling his braids with annoyed jerks of his fingers. When he finishes and sweeps the wavy mass aside, I notice that he left one braid intact, a small one at the base of his skull, under the rest of his hair. The bones woven into that braid look different from the tiny animal bones in my own braids.

“I’d expect nothing from you,” he says. “Producing my heir would likely kill you. I’m not even sure I could fit inside you.”

My face heats, and I murmur, “You won’t know until you try.”

His pacing halts abruptly, and he plants both hands against the wall. He’s in a sleeveless tunic now, divested of his heavy outer layers, so I have an unobstructed chance to admire the bulging curves of his muscled arms.

“You need a bath,” he says, low. “You’re filthy.

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